


Fata et Liberum Arbitrium

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anthea is ace/aro, Anthea ships it with force, Dating, Dating adventures, Gay Greg Lestrade, Gay Mycroft Holmes, Greg is a teddy bear, Greg's in IT, Greg's persistent, Happy Ending, He is very OOC and I love him, M/M, Mummy Holmes is the worst, Myc is a disaster gay, Myc is a political satirist, Myc needs a hug, Mycroft is Myc in this verse, Mystrade Soulmates Week, Soulbonds, Soulmate marks, Soulmates, The universe has it out for Myc, This is what we in the biz like to call a meet ugly, alternating pov, business as usual there, dating apps, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: In a world where soulmates and soulbonds are the norm, how do you find love when your soulmate died before you ever met them? How do you let yourself fall in love when you were born without a soulmark?Greg's never let the first fact hold him back from dating, and even marriage. Myc thinks the universe is actively trying to keep him from forming a connection with anyone since he was born without a soulmark. it might sound crazy, but as one disaster after another tries to keep these two from dating, he really starts to believe it more than ever. Luckily, Greg is more persistent than the universe.
Relationships: Greg & Sally, Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes, Myc & Fate, Mycroft & Anthea, Mystrade - Relationship
Comments: 30
Kudos: 128
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	Fata et Liberum Arbitrium

**Author's Note:**

> First, a HUGE thank you to Paia and Puffle, without whom this story would be 2k words shorter and not nearly as good. They provided invaluable feedback and beta work. Any mistakes are my own. Thank you to vulpes for curating the collection :)  
> Universe rundown:  
> 1) (nearly) everyone is born with a soulmark, which looks like a shadow on the skin. It turns a bright color when your soulmate is born (or is already a bright color when you are born, meaning your soulmate is already alive)  
> 2) when you meet your soulmate both of your soulmarks turn warm, tingle and go an even more vivid color as you form a soulbond  
> 3) when your soulmate dies, your soulmark turns the color ash  
> 4) some very rare people are born without a soulmark and have no soulmate  
> 5) not all soulmates are romantic, some are platonic  
> I think that about covers it--if anyone has any questions feel free to catch up with me in the comments, or on Twitter/Tumblr (@savvyblunders)

As he did every Valentine’s Day, when he found himself alone, Greg donned his comfiest joggers, treated himself to steak and beer, and stayed up far too late playing the bloodiest video games he had. Single, he firmly believed, didn’t mean miserable and unhappy—whether or not one had a soulmate. His life was happy and fulfilling, but it was over two years since his last serious relationship and around his fourth beer he began to feel the nibbling teeth of loneliness.

Relieving his feelings by blasting the heads off of a score of slavering zombies proved satisfying, but not ultimately alleviating. Pausing the action, he debated opening another beer but upon reflection he decided he was allowing himself to wallow. If he was unhappy without a partner then he needed to do something about it! Natural optimism refilling him like helium rushing into a balloon, Greg logged on to his favourite dating app and began searching. Sure, it was Valentine's day and he was a little drunk and more than a little moody. That needn't stop him from just checking out a few profiles, right?

His eye was caught by an artistically composed black and white photo of a man with a striking face. He had receding hair cropped short, dark-rimmed glasses, a distinguished nose, and eyes that seemed to hint at laughter. Clicking on his profile, Greg hummed as more photos loaded, these in color. Hmm, a ginger. He'd always loved a man with a bit of fire to him. This fella wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something in his knowing half-smile that Greg liked; his face was interesting, full of character, lit with humour. Here was a man who had lived a life of sorrow as well as laughter.

**Myc Holmes,** read the name on the profile. At thirty-nine he was a few years younger than Greg. Self-employed, a published author, a London resident. No soulmark, never married, no children. 

Clicking through his interests, Greg smiled. Jogging and photography weren't really his thing, but video games, superhero movies and microbrew beers ticked his boxes nicely. Myc had listed his favourite movies and books and a good margin of them could be found on Greg's own list. There were others that intrigued him and he wondered if Myc was the sort of bloke you could have a friendly, spirited debate with, or if he was churlish with his opinions. 

"Only one way to find out." He clicked on the green CHAT button, feeling a tingle of excitement when he saw the tiny blue dot next to Myc's name which indicated he was online. He did a happy dance in his seat and hopped up, headed for his kitchen. Instead of opening another beer he ripped open a chocolate bar and took a ferocious bite, full of a sudden excitement as strong as hunger.

* * *

  
  
  


Having spent most of the day in edits, Myc was happy to shut down his Chromebook and “clock out” for the day. Standing up from the small desk he had tucked in the corner of the lounge, he took off his noise-cancelling headphones—one of his housemates had been home earlier—and stretched. Grimacing, he reminded himself yet again to set alarms on his mobile. He really did need to take more frequent breaks and move around. He jogged most mornings and liked to think he was generally fit, but he grew too stiff and creaky if he didn’t get the blood flowing regularly. Sitting down at work was something he’d have killed for when he was younger and working two jobs, one in a warehouse and the other as a waiter. Now it was the other end of the spectrum.

Shivering, he realized the house had grown chilly while he was absorbed in work, and he reached for the hoodie draped over the back of his ergonomic desk chair. Slipping into it, he shuffled down the hallway to the loo; it seemed as if no one was home, except for Edwin, as there was a light left on at the top of the stairs. Myc glanced at his smart watch; only just gone seven, Edwin was probably primping to go out and pick up his girlfriend. They’d been dating for two years and lived in one another’s pockets—Edwin would definitely be taking her out on the town for Valentine’s Day. Myc grimaced sourly at his reflection in the mirror; there really should be a phrase similar to ‘bah humbug!’ for Valentine’s. 

Noting the trend of his thoughts he paused. Lord, what a curmudgeon he was growing into! He finished washing his hands and gave his face a good splash with cold water to knock some of the bleariness—and curmudgeonliness— from his mind. 

Back in the lounge he selected an instrumental jazz channel on YouTube and adjusted the volume so he could hear it from the kitchen but hopefully not annoy Edwin upstairs. His shelf in the fridge was looking rather sparse, and he peered into takeaway containers; the prospects looked a bit dubious. When had he last eaten pizza? Sighing, he sniffed at the milk and decided it was safe; there was just enough for a large bowl of cereal for his dinner, and enough left over to make a smoothie in the morning. He really needed to visit the shops, but Myc always put it off as long as possible. He hated pushing a trolley through the aisles, choosing small amounts for his single self. Not to mention he wasn’t a very good cook. Thus the proliferation of takeaway containers.

Settling onto the sofa, he turned the volume back down on his music and spooned up cereal, absently checking his social media. He was pleased to see a text from his brother, inviting him over on Sunday; his landlady was making a roast. Sherlock’s soulmate John, John’s partner Molly, and their daughter Abby would be there. Happily he accepted the invite and offered to bring something. He hadn’t even time to put his phone down before Sherlock responded that there was no need. He laughed softly; his brother was no more a cook than he was, and he well knew that anything Myc brought would be from the store. No doubt the skilled Mrs Hudson had things well in hand. Perhaps he could bring her a houseplant—her kitchen windowsill was crowded with African violets, aloe vera, herbs and the like.

Trying to finish his cereal before it became a soggy mess, Myc put his mobile down and concentrated on eating before he skimmed his email. After cleaning his bowl and spoon, he made himself a cup of tea and took an elderly banana back to the sofa with him. Queueing up  _ Planet Earth, _ he attended to his few personal emails, leaving the professional ones for the following day. As a freelance writer and published author who worked from home he had found that setting boundaries for himself on the ‘after hours’ time spent on work matters greatly reduced his feeling of always being on. 

Despite doubting he’d find anything intriguing, Myc decided to check his dating apps. He’d joined several over the years, always hopeful in spite of his own doubts; over time, however, Myc had scaled back his memberships. There was a disheartening flood of lonely people seeking connection, and so often dates left him feeling empty and more alone than before. But because he couldn’t help but yearn for someone in his life, he’d kept two profiles open. There were quite a few inquiries in the first app, but no one was online. He viewed their profiles and replied to the one man who piqued his interest. Opening the other app, he saw he had no new messages, aside from a rather desperate inquiry from a man he’d shared a terribly awkward first date with—the epic food poisoning they’d both endured had been the least of it. 

Myc sighed; he’d tried to let Gerard down politely, as it was clear they hadn’t any chemistry, and little in common, but the other man was openly desperate for companionship since his soulmate had died. Chewing on his lip, he hesitated over what to say. With immense gratitude, he heard the tiny trill indicating a new message, and watched as the alert popped up. Clicking on the chat, he followed the link to the man’s profile.

Oh my. 

**Greg Lestrade.** Several years older than Myc, an IT specialist, London born and raised, his soulmate had died—oh dear. Myc’s mind flashed to the wounded and lonely Gerard. He didn’t want to judge everyone by one experience, but he’d had quite enough of being the rebound, thank you very much. Greg was quite handsome; bright eyed, with silvering hair standing up as if he’d just run a hand through it, smile playing about his mouth. He’d described his body type as ample, but to Myc he looked solid, a reassuring figure of strength, overlaid with a soft padding. He’d be marvelous to snuggle up to. 

He closed his eyes briefly, imagining it, wondering what the man smelled like. A soft sigh escaped him, and he startled, annoyed with the neediness of the sound. _ Good Lord, how long has it been since I’ve hugged anyone? Buck up, man! _

Greg’s message was friendly and, thank heavens, not explicit. Myc had lost count of the number of times he’d been confronted with aggressively sexual come-ons. He gnawed on his lip, considering. More than likely Greg would turn out to be needy, still recovering from the loss of his soulmate, simply looking for a warm body to ease his loneliness. Or dull and uninteresting; they’d have no chemistry, no spark, nothing in common. But...Myc thought of his sparse grocery trolley, his quiet evenings, the months and months of celibacy. It wouldn’t hurt to reply with a friendly and non-committal greeting. 

Probably nothing would come of it, but there was only so much solitude he could endure. Thinking with a wince of all the ways in which the universe was likely to slap him down, Myc nevertheless decided to give Greg Lestrade a chance.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Myc was late—like really, really late. Greg hit  _ yes _ when Netflix asked if he was still watching, and thought about just changing out of his date clothes and grabbing a cider. But he’d really enjoyed the chats he and Myc had over the last two weeks, prior to their first in-person meeting tonight. Myc  _ had _ warned him he might be running a bit behind due to a work meeting. Glancing at his phone just to make sure he hadn’t missed a text, Greg decided to give it one more episode. He wasn’t even through the credits when the street buzzer sounded. Pressing pause, he went over to the call box by his front door.

“Yeah?”

A stilted voice came through, slightly tinny from the speaker, “Um, Greg?”

“Yeah. Is this Myc?”

“Y-yes.” There was a pause, “Um...I’ve...I’m in-injured. C-could you come down and—” he stopped, finger still on the button, so Greg couldn’t ask if he was alright. After a pause he continued, sounding as if he were panting slightly, “Could I come in and sit down while I call a cab to take me to A&E?”

“Oh, god, yeah, hold on, I’ll be right there!” Greg snatched up his keys and dashed down the short corridor and down the four steps that led to the tiny vestibule. His building was old, on strange levels, riddled with dog-legged passages and awkwardly shaped rooms. Throwing open the security bolt, he opened the door. 

There stood Myc Holmes, taller than Greg had expected, although he was hunched over, holding his left side. Under the pained grimace and the bloody nose he was probably as good looking as his profile photo had promised. Right now he just looked as if he had been involved in a traffic accident or a mugging.

“Jesus Christ!” Greg gasped, reaching for him and helping him into the vestibule. “Are you alright?”

Myc groaned, clutching at Greg’s forearm, “Slipped on the ice,” he gritted out, leaning on Greg, “I fell down the steps—think I might have cracked a rib...agh, and my ankle is killing me.”

“There’s a few steps,” Greg worried, biting into his lip. He considered carrying Myc, but while he was of a slimmer build than Greg, he was taller. Plus he didn’t want to drive his rib into his lungs or something horrifying like that. Crap, being in IT was in no way preparation for potential life-saving. He was a real badass when it came to his favourite video games, but that was a different matter entirely. “Lean on me— if you don’t think you can make it just say, and I’ll bring a chair down here.”

“I—think I can manage,” Myc panted, and he did indeed, although they were both sweating by the time he was lowered onto Greg’s couch. “God, thank you! I actually laid at the bottom of your front steps and considered just crying until someone came along.” He laughed abashedly.

Greg, hurrying back from fetching him some water, stopped and stared at him in concern. Myc’s face was pasty, his freckles standing out, and lines of pain radiated around his mouth. It was clear he was clenching his jaw. “Lemme get you some painkillers while I call emergency services.”

“I can just call a taxi,” Myc fussed when he came back, gratefully swallowing the pills Greg offered him. He kept one hand pressed to his side, leaning back. “I don’t think I need an ambulance.”

“You might puncture a lung if you haven’t already!”

Myc opened his eyes, which he had closed. They were a gentle grey-blue, although clouded with pain, “I don’t  _ think _ I’ve done so.”

“Are you a doctor?” Greg asked with exaggerated shock, “You didn't mention that! In fact, I believe you told me that you write and illustrate political comics,” he sassed. He stood over Myc, feeling like the nanny of a wayward child and slapped a wet flannel into his hand. “I really think an ambulance is in order."

Myc gently dabbed at the blood on his face, grimacing as he passed it over his swollen nose. Greg tsked and dialled 999 while he made an ice pack. “You are correct in that I’m not a doctor,” Myc admitted, smiling at him as he took the offered ice pack, “But I think I would be able to feel—” he stopped talking as Greg held up a finger and began talking to the dispatcher.

Hanging up, Greg slipped his mobile into his pocket, "Apparently the freeze after the rain caused a lot of ice and there are accidents all over the city. They said they'd have someone here as soon as possible but it may be a good half hour." He sat on the coffee table, cupping Myc’s snow-damp leg in his palm, easing it up so he could slip a cushion under his ankle. He gingerly draped another ice pack over it and gave Myc’s shin an awkward little pat.

Myc sighed his thanks and they sat in silence for a minute, the other man letting his head drop back against the sofa. “Sorry about all of this.” His voice was muffled by the ice pack he held over his nose.

“Hey, no worries,” Greg assured him, “I’m glad it happened here. I mean, if it _ had _ to happen I’m glad it was here where you knew someone. Well, not  _ know. _ We’re sorta strangers.”  _ Oh my god, _ he thought,  _ Shut. Up. _

Myc laughed, opening his eyes. He might have been smiling behind his ice pack, his eyes certainly looked as if he were smiling. Greg wished he could see it. He wished Myc hadn’t been injured. Right now they could be on their way to dinner—or not. The weather was pretty crap, dangerous pavements. They could have stayed in, he had a few things in, make a frittata or something. He’d been looking forward to getting to know Myc better.

“I wish I could say this was the most awkward first date I’ve ever had,” Myc said ruefully.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had worse!”

“I once got set up on a blind date with someone who turned out to be my cousin,” Myc deadpanned. He grinned briefly at Greg’s disbelieving laugh. “However we didn’t find out until after our fourth date, while we were talking about our family holidays when we were boys.” He shook his head, “David was lovely, but while  _ Game of Thrones _ is delightful to watch incest isn’t really my thing. I was a guest at his wedding in Scotland last summer. His wife is charming, we got along quite well.”

“Oh come on!” Greg protested, laughing, “You’re putting me on.”

“I assure you I’m not,” Myc rebutted, turning his ice pack over, hissing slightly as the cooler side made contact with his nose. “Then there was Chip Vanderhoot. Chip was a perfectly lovely American man I met at a networking event for journos. We arranged to meet for dinner a week later, but he was unable to attend as he was doing a spot of rather sensitive investigative journalism. We rescheduled and agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant. However, he texted me shortly beforehand, asking me to meet him at a different address.”

Greg was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, smile quirked at Myc. Despite his obvious pain, and the ice pack obscuring most of his face, the man was captivating. 

“Unfortunately it was not a restaurant of any sort I arrived at, but a warehouse where he was being held hostage by a group of domestic terrorists.”

Greg gaped at him, “Bloody hell!”

“Quite. Luckily I’d taken the time to text my brother the change of plans, so when I didn’t text him the next day about my date, he called in a favour with a detective he’s worked with. Very long story short, they were able to locate us and we were rescued before meeting a very gruesome and untimely end. Needless to say, Chip and I were both badly traumatised by the event and I’ve not seen him since.”

“My god,” Greg said somewhat blankly, sitting back to stare at him, “You should write a book.”

“If only that were the worst of it,” Myc said sadly. He was in the midst of telling Greg about the time that he’d been catfished by a murderer when Emergency Services arrived. Greg locked up and rode along in the ambulance, ignoring Myc’s protests that he was fine. “If nothing else I have to hear how that story ended,” Greg teased.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Myc felt grotty, he was gritty-eyed, stiff and grumpy. He was wrapped in a thin, scratchy hospital blanket, sitting upright on a very uncomfortable A&E trolley in a drafty cubicle, clutching a cooling paper cup of dreadful tea. It was nearly one in the morning and he’d still not been examined. Remarkably, Greg was still there. He was half-asleep on the doctor’s stool, leaning on the bed, trying to remain alert. They’d long since concluded the tale of the time Myc was saved from being lured into meeting a murderer. It was only down to the fact that by that time the authorities had been on to the man and he was arrested before the meeting occurred. 

Greg had shared some horror stories of his own (though none quite so horrific), which was a nice bit of reciprocity. Otherwise Myc would have felt very much like a depressing yet funny one-man show about the awfulness of dating when one was one of the unBonded. To Greg’s credit not once in this rather terrible night had he asked Myc leading questions about what it was like “not to have a soulmate” as people usually did. There was no escaping the subject, and Myc had learned to be matter-of-fact about it. However, after thirty-nine years he was rather like his ribs, bruised and wary of a casual touch. The subject was too painful, even if he’d lived with it all his life.

“You really should go home,” Myc murmured, fighting to keep his eyes open. “There’s no point to you sitting here. It could be hours.”

“I can’t just leave you here,” Greg protested yet again. He’d been saying the same thing almost since the moment they arrived. He stood, stretching. “Want anything from the vending machines?”

Myc was too tired and wretched to be hungry. “No thanks.” 

“I’m going to pop outside for a smoke, grab myself another coffee, I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” 

He watched Greg duck through the curtains and then let his head drop back, wishing he could lie down, but it hurt too much to move. Not just his ribs, his whole body felt like one large bruise. He was stiff and sore and he just wanted to be at home in his bed. Sherlock had been apprised of the events of the evening and had offered to come sit with him. But it was late, and he and John had his partner’s daughter for the weekend. Myc hated to bother them. 

A harried doctor arrived while Greg was still out and proceeded to examine him; he palpated his ribs, listened to his lungs. He recommended an x-ray, “just to be sure, Mr Holmes, although I do believe you’re just badly bruised.” They were remarkably efficient about wheeling him away to be x-rayed, by which time Greg had yet to return. Myc shrugged fatalistically; by the time he returned the other man would be gone. Greg had been kind and thoughtful, but there was only so much one could expect of a virtual stranger. He wouldn’t blame the man at all for taking the opportunity to slip away.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


His ribs were ‘just bruised.’ His ankle had been twisted, not broken, thank god, and was strapped, relieving some of the pain. Prescribed rest, anti-inflammatories and ice packs, Myc was released. Intent on his nearly dead mobile, Myc walked down the corridor toward the A&E entrance. He would summon an Uber; at this hour and in this condition he couldn’t countenance the thought of public transport. Home, and his bed, were calling his name so deeply that he could scarcely summon the energy to put one foot in front of the other.

“Hey!” a sleep-graveled voice called, startling him. Greg stood from one of the excruciatingly uncomfortable metal and foam chairs in the waiting area. He scrubbed roughly at his face, looking haggard, “I almost didn’t see you going by. You all clear?”

Myc paused, glad enough to see him, but bleary with exhaustion. His mind was sluggish and he could scarcely summon the words to respond. “Oh. Hey. You’re still here.” Greg’s words penetrated his fog, “Oh...yes, I’m fine, just bruised. There was really no need for you to wait all this time.”

Greg regarded him with concern, “Yeah...couldn’t leave, told you that. Mate, you look done in. Let’s get you home. What’s your address? I’ll call an Uber.” Myc hesitated. Greg studied him, “Oh, yeah, shit, considering your dating past I guess you might not want me to know where you live. Well I’ll wait with you until they come.”

Myc fumbled with the app, and then cursed, “It’s a fifteen to twenty minute wait.” He considered throwing himself on the ground and having a temper tantrum. But, germs. Also, if he got down he might not get up again.

Greg squeezed his arm, “Let me see if I can flag down a cab.”

Myc sank back in his seat, too tired to argue. Independence seemed like a faraway concept at that moment. He drifted off, roused only when Greg shook him gently. “Huh?”

Greg’s expression was sympathetic. “I’ve got a cab, but we need to hurry or someone’ll snatch him up.”

“Right,” Myc let Greg help him out to the waiting vehicle, easing gratefully inside. “Thanks for...well, everything.” He smiled awkwardly. “It was, um, memorable.”

Greg plucked some cash from his wallet and passed it to the driver, “Get him home alright, eh?” To Mycroft he said only, “I’d say goodnight, but it’s nearly dawn.” He smiled, rueful but still friendly despite their trainwreck of a date, “Get some sleep. Text me to let me know you made it home alright, will you?”

“Thank you again, you went above and beyond.” Myc told him, as he reached to close the door. He smiled crookedly, “Goodbye.”

As Greg’s figure receded into the distance, he faced forward. Well there went another perfectly lovely man and another horrid date. Laughing silently, he thought that he really ought to take it as a sign that he was meant to be alone. Safer for all involved, really.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“I thought steak for a black eye was meant to be applied topically?” Myc quizzed Anthea. They were having their monthly ‘business meeting.’ It was a tax write-off and mostly an excuse for them to overindulge in food, drink and gossip. He worked freelance, had done for years; given the nature of his scathing political satire, it was often best if he were unaffiliated. Anthea, however, had approached him five years prior, wanting to sign him. She had the idea that he could compile his best works in a book and get it published. She had been, as she usually was, very right. Since his book had been published to some acclaim and very nice sales, a second had been in order; they had seen it successfully launched the year prior. Anthea had been pushing him to consider a third. They’d been in talks to create, of all things, a graphic novel, a political thriller, to be exact. It was stretching Myc in ways he didn’t always find particularly comfortable, but which were very exciting, nonetheless.

She gestured elegantly with her knife, “The iron is what you need, you pallid bastard.”

“So kind,” Myc tutted under his breath, earning himself an unrepentant grin. “Since you’re paying—” He gestured at the waiter, “—I’ll have another Bloody Mary.”

“Make that two,” she told the waiter, stirring melted ice with her celery. She regarded Myc with sharp-eyed fondness. “So you really left this handsome—he  _ was _ handsome, wasn’t he?—white knight standing outside the hospital and just vanished?”

“I’m a bad-luck charm,” Myc said bluntly. He dipped an artichoke leaf in melted butter, stared at it moodily. “And yes, he was very handsome.” He tried not to think wistfully of Greg’s warm eyes, his sturdy frame, so cuddly and soft under his button-down. Myc didn’t have a particular type, but he’d always been drawn to men who exuded strength—both physical as well as emotional. Greg Lestrade, despite the layer of softness he carried, was clearly a man to be reckoned with. Yet it was clear he was also gentle and compassionate; he couldn’t have been any sweeter that horrible night.

“It’s not been quite a week,” Anthea pointed out helpfully, “It wouldn’t be  _ too _ rude of you to text him now—tell him you’d like to take him out to dinner. As a thank you for coming to your rescue.” She frowned sternly, “But it would certainly be rude not to contact him at all—or to wait any longer.”

It was pure weakness to even consider asking the universe to slap him down again, but Myc was tempted. He rather wished they’d at least been able to enjoy their date  _ before _ he had been injured. Greg truly was lovely—and oh, how funny and interesting he had been in their chats leading up to the doomed first date! However… “I never developed an accursed soulmark,” he said sourly, the old pain so deep it was nearly painless now to speak of it aloud. “Every relationship I’ve pursued ends disastrously. Clearly the universe wants me to be alone.”

“Bollocks,” she snorted forcefully. “If you want to be alone—--fine. If you were happy alone, as I am, then I’d say live your singledom gloriously. Revel in it.” She took a ferocious sip out of her fresh drink, “But Myc, darling, you stupid puppy, you aren’t happy alone. You _ long _ for someone. It positively drips from you.” Her piercing blue gaze softened, her fondness shining through, “Those previous ‘relationships’ as you call them, didn’t end in disaster. You ran from them at the first hurdle. Have you even _ had _ a second date in all the years I’ve known you?” She pushed aside her Bloody Mary and resumed cutting into her steak, “You need to decide if this Greg is worth seeing how it goes from here.”

He sighed from his toes. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “I’ll invite him to dinner.”

“Someplace French,” Anthea said brightly, blue eyes guileless. She waggled her eyebrows, “Wine, violins, candlelight.”

“The place will probably burn to the ground,” Myc drawled, voice dry enough to strike a match on. The temptation to see Greg again teased at him, and he drummed his fingers anxiously on the tabletop, chewing it over. “I suppose you know the perfect place?”

Anthea smiled angelically, “As a matter of fact I do.” She reached for her mobile, “I’ll just make a call. There’s someone who owes me a favour.” Her eyes sparkled with secondhand excitement, and Myc felt his own anticipation rising. His attraction to Greg was undeniable. It was just a matter of whether or not he was willing to risk potential ruin for the chance of another date.

* * *

  
  
  
  


Greg supposed that he had very good reason to be cynical about love and relationships. He had a pretty healthy dating history—but he hadn’t had a soulmate since he was seven.

At birth his soulmark had been fully activated, which meant his soulmate was already alive. His mum, inveterate romantic, had been thrilled. During his childhood she spent hours speculating on who his soulmate might be, where they lived, how much older than Greg they were, if they were a boy or a girl. Greg, growing up hearing of his parent’s marvelous love story, and party to his mum’s endless musing on his own soulmate, trembled with excitement every time he met anyone new.

But then came the day he felt a terrible pain in his chest, a flare of agony so intense he fainted on the playground. When he came to, lying on the cot in the school nurse’s office, he saw the sorrowful faces of the nurse, his teacher and the headmaster. They tried to keep him lying down, waiting on his mum, who had been summoned from work, but Greg was tenacious, and he sat up, woozy but determined. His head quickly cleared, but his heart cracked when he saw that on his inner left wrist, his once brilliantly cobalt blue soulmark had turned the color of soot. His soulmate, the one destined for him out of the entire universe, had died.

Since he was so young when it happened Greg found himself both mourning a perfect union he’d never know, and yet also healing away from the loss as he grew. There was a special pain to knowing he’d never meet them. But Greg was a sweet boy, possessing a generous heart. He wanted to fall in love, to be cherished, to adore someone. There were others who had lost their own soulmate, or the more rare instances of those who had been born without one. As he aged, Greg came to think that maybe there was a place in the world for those people who needed love all the more. 

As he grew up, so too did the internet. Dating sites became popular, and as social media began to influence daily life, it became easy to find others in similar situations, also looking for a relationship. Greg had no trouble finding dates, and he’d had one or two really meaningful relationships. But for one reason or another they didn’t last. His mum, who grew teary over the matter, especially around the holidays, or when she’d had a bit too much to drink, claimed it was because being without a soulmate left you rudderless. No relationship formed with another rootless person would last. Greg bit back his hurt and anger at her attitude—which after all was shared by most people—and went on with his life. Maybe she was right and he’d never settle to a lasting, meaningful relationship. But he was warm and gregarious, and he refused to spend his life alone when there were other people out there looking for companionship and love.

The connection he’d felt with Myc, the attraction and desire, had been strong, and he’d really looked forward to getting to know him. But they’d staggered and fallen at the first hurdle and Myc had shut down Greg’s attempts to set up a do-over. He’d waited until the afternoon following Myc’s accident and tried to call him. Two more unanswered calls later he sent him a cheery text, inquiring after his recovery. Myc finally answered, but he seemed unenthusiastic. Greg suggested they get together for their deferred date when Myc was feeling better, but the younger man had given him a very courteous and very final no. 

Myc thought it was better that they accept fate’s plan for them and avoid any further injury. Greg couldn’t help but wonder if Myc meant to his body or his heart—his stories of his failed dating attempts had been funny in a horrific way. Myc told them with self-depreciating, wry humour, which didn’t quite mask a deep river of pain. Greg would have liked to have seen if maybe together they could find a way to bridge that river and reach the other side—but Myc made it clear he wasn’t interested. The smart thing to do would have been to move on, but Greg wasn’t ready to admit defeat. The world was a funny place...Myc could change his mind. Being patient had paid off more than once, maybe it would in this case also.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“This place is swank,” Greg whispered to Myc as they were led to their table. He threw him a smile, “Hope I don’t dribble on my tie.”

“Do you often dribble?” Myc asked, softening his laugh. He felt a little out of place; while he’d eaten in such fine establishments before, they weren’t his usual haunt, and something about this place made him very aware of the romantic ambiance. Anthea had pulled considerable strings to get them a reservation, even though this place had a month-long waiting list. Curse her for her determination to see him happy.

“Only when I’m nervous,” Greg joked. They sat, taking their ridiculously huge menus; all the more as the menu was actually quite limited, not nearly as extensive as the wine list. “Or anytime, really. I’m a bit messy, sorry. Big, messy disaster, that’s me.” He looked sheepish, with that self-deprecating look Myc recognized from his own chubby youth. Afraid to take up too much space, eager to make fun of oneself before anyone else could do it.

“It’s fine,” Myc excused, smiling warmly, “You can hardly top me for the title of biggest disaster!” He relaxed a little. Greg was obviously nervous, but his smile, while shy, was bright. He’d responded to Myc’s text with gratifying swiftness and enthusiasm. Myc was flattered, and flustered, that he hadn’t run him off with his text message. Greg had been more than courteous in his attempts to keep a connection open between them and had eagerly accepted the invitation. “I tend to talk far too much when I get nervous—if I do, just tell me to shut up.”

“I’d never,” Greg assured him, twinkling. “At least not on the first date.”

Myc looked up from the bewildering wine list. He knew nothing about wine, he should have researched it to be prepared! “Is this the first date? I rather thought that was the other night.”

Greg was easy, “Naw, that was just a....first meeting.” He smiled into Myc’s eyes, causing a flutter in his chest, “A getting-to-know-you.  _ This _ is our first date.”

He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I’ll endeavour to make a good impression then.”

“You already have,” Greg said, low, smiling. He sat back as the waiter approached. There were a few minutes in which they both hemmed and hawed, before Myc mentally flung his hands in the air, asking the waiter to suggest a wine. They shared a guilty look as the waiter departed; Greg snickered. “Thank Christ you did that, I was trying to sound cosmopolitan, but beer’s more my speed.”

“I only drink wine at parties when it’s the only option. I wanted to seem smooth and sophisticated but my ignorance undermined me.”

“Nothing wrong with not knowing things, that’s how we learn, asking questions.”

“True.”

“So...how about we agree to go for honesty, instead of flash and dazzle?”

“It’d be infinitely less exhausting,” Myc agreed, folding his hands over his menu. “I think I’ll have the special. It sounds good, and I hate having to translate with my rudimentary school-boy French. What about you, Greg  _ Lestrade? _ How’s your French?”

“In name only, I’m afraid! I studied French in school but I’ve forgotten most of it. We’re English for as far back as anyone in the family cared to trace. I’d say a social-climbing ancestor adopted the name, or maybe one of my great-great granddads was a smuggler that fell in love with an English girl.”

“Romantic,” Myc teased, “A dark-eyed pirate and the fair English rose he loved.”

“Sounds like a trashy romance!” Greg laughed. He studied Myc’s face, going a bit pink, “I uh, like your beard.”

Myc rubbed his fingers over his chin; he was still getting used to the facial hair. He was scruffy at this stage, but he could picture it fuller, more neatly groomed. “Thanks...with my ribs being so tender it’s been easier not to shave. I’m thinking of keeping it.”

Greg was very pink now, “You should,” he agreed, regarding Myc with an appreciative eye, “Looks really good on you.” He looked down, smiling almost bashfully, “With the beard and the glasses you look like a professor.” Glancing up from under his lashes, he cleared his throat, “It’s sexy.”

It was Myc’s turn to go red. _ Lord.  _ Sexy—him! He wasn’t certain he’d been sexy even in his youth, when he worked out regularly and had more hair. But Greg’s eyes were sincere. “Thank you,” he murmured, and they exchanged shy smiles.

When the waiter returned they both ordered the special. Greg leaned his arms on the table, smiling at Myc, seemed to recall their surroundings and sat up, abashed. “I feel like the Headmaster’s about to call me out,” he confessed in a stage whisper, and they shared a laugh.

“Mr Lestrade,” Myc said with mock sternness, “what’s this I hear about you skivving about in the streets like some hooligan?”

“Sorry, sir,” Greg peeped, “It was my mates’ fault. I swear I’m a good boy—”

He fell silent, turning bright red as the waiter appeared tableside, bearing the plate of tarts they’d ordered to share. Myc pressed his lips tightly together, a hysterical shriek of laughter trying to escape; he avoided Greg’s eyes. “Thank you,” he peeped, earning them a highly snooty look. “We’re going to get kicked out,” he snickered as the waiter departed.

Greg giggled helplessly into his napkin, “It’s not that funny, but his _ face…!” _

Myc shushed him, unable to remain composed whenever Greg began laughing again. They settled, fighting back giggles, nearly succumbing again whenever their eyes chanced to meet. Finally they managed to calm down, and ate their onion and anchovy tarts with overly-solemn faces. 

Myc cleared his throat, “So—” but the rest of his sentence went unspoken when a fragment of pastry casing caught in his throat. Eyes watering, he tried to dislodge it; unable to manage, Myc reached for his water glass, horrified to find it empty. Coughing harder, drawing attention, he fumbled for the wine glass, knocking it over. Red wine bloomed quickly across the linen tablecloth as panic bloomed even more rapidly in his chest.

Greg, who had been looking concerned, now looked alarmed. “Myc,” tone urgent, he stood abruptly, shaking the table, rattling china, sending the tall taper candle swaying dangerously, “Here—” he reached to hand his own water across the table and Myc watched in horror as his worst fears came to life.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Greg was annoyed; his sister’s wife Sally had been cutting his hair for years, since long before she had her license. While their relationship meant he got mates rates, it also meant he was treated with less than professional conduct at times. Like now. Sally leaned against her station, cackling.  _ “You set yourself on fire?!” _

Greg shushed her, aware they were drawing the attention of the other patrons. “Yes,” he hissed, “I’m  _ fine, _ by the way, thanks ever so for your concern.”

She dismissed that with a wave, “Clearly you are, you’re sitting in front of me.”

He glowered, “I’m going to start going to someplace where they treat their patrons with courtesy.”

“You? Paying top prices on the high street?” Her snort was rich, “You’d never be caught dead in there. You’re not that kind of gay.”

“Harassment,” he chided, and grinned at her saucy look. Jean had more than met her match with her soulmate; Sally was sharp-tongued, quick-witted and delightful. Normally Greg loved Sally. Right now he wanted to throttle her. “And it wasn’t me. I mean, I didn’t set myself on fire. I just...dragged my tie through the candle-flame.” He bowed his head solemnly, “May it rest in peace.”

“You mean your one sad tie? That hideous polyester thing Jeannie begged you to burn?”

“She got her wish,” Greg quipped, and joined her when she yelped with laughter. Calming, she picked up her comb and scissors. “Tell Jean she can get me a new tie for my birthday—although I rarely need one, thank god. The perks of working from home.”

“So when are you seeing him again?”

Greg felt his shoulders slump. “He hasn’t answered my texts.” He met her suddenly serious eyes in the mirror, “He was really upset, even though I wasn’t in any danger. I had my tie off in a flash. It wasn’t serious at all, I was more worried about him—he was choking!”

“Send him flowers or condoms, or whatever it is modern men do.” She waved a vague, I’m-a-lesbian-I-don’t-know-these-things hand.

“Dunno where he lives, do I? Beside...once he stopped choking he went on a rant about the universe trying to tell him something. Said it was clear we were doomed.” Doomed, he’d thought often during the weeks since that night, sounded really final. He knew it was very early days yet, but he genuinely liked Myc. They’d had such lovely chats before they met, and while their two dates had been fairly dismal, the time that hadn’t been occupied by disaster had been great. It had to mean something that despite all the shit that had gone down every time they were together, he was so strongly drawn to him.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Sally argued, “Use social media—probably take you two minutes to find him.”

“I’m not going to stalk him if he doesn’t want to see me!”

She brandished her scissors, frowning, “I didn’t say ‘stalk.’ Did I say ‘stalk’? No. Just...make a grand romantic gesture. Or anything nice at all...show him you’re still interested. Show him you’ve not been scared off.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Dedication, innovation and drive had sent Anthea up the ranks of the top publishers in London by the time she was thirty. She was widely recognized as a hard-working, intelligent, astute and savvy businesswoman. When she was at work, she  _ worked.  _ She didn’t let herself get distracted by nonsense. There were social media filters in place, and Anthea had strict personal guidelines on wasting time with personal matters or allowing herself to be distracted by non-work-related emails and calls.

But when a message came to her work email which wasn’t, strictly speaking, business related, she stopped what she was doing to devote her full attention to it. Myc’s recent date, Greg Lestrade, was messaging her. She read his email twice, closed her eyes, sat back and spent ten minutes thinking things through.

Growing up, sex had never interested Anthea. In fact it had always seemed messy and distasteful. Certainly she had none of the same titillated interest as her schoolmates. Much the same could be said about romance. She thought the constant seeking of romantic partners was rather silly. Good friends, good books, and fulfilling personal accomplishments were much more satisfying, at least for her. There had been people who liked her and whom she liked in return. At first she had fooled herself into thinking it was love. Unfortunately it soon became clear that the affection and friendship she felt didn’t match the sorts of feelings those people were developing for her. More than one beautiful friendship had soured and ended in flames.

Not until she was in university did she come to the realization that she was both asexual as well as aromantic. Discovering it had been a tremendous relief—she was tired of wondering if there was something wrong with her. Particularly because other people seemed to think she was unnatural. Finding out that there were plenty of others who experienced lack of attraction meant she wasn’t an anomaly.

Her mum had actually become almost hysterical, imploring her to “reconsider.” As if Anthea could ‘reconsider’ an immutable fact of her nature. Her mum wanted grandchildren, she wanted Anthea to have a partner, someone to depend on. “You’ll grow old alone and who’ll love you then?” had rung in her ears like a death-knell.

To further confuse matters, Anthea had developed a soulmark when she was seventeen, meaning her soulmate had only just been born. It had worried her that they would be so much younger, but at the same time the knowledge that she would have years before she had to confront a romantic partner had been a relief. 

Somehow, for as intelligent and well-read as she was, it had never occurred to her that she might be one of those rare people whose soulmate was platonic. Fourteen years of mild anxiety might have been avoided if she had only considered that. General wisdom claimed the universe never made mistakes. Your soulmate was perfect for you—so if one were interested in neither sex nor romance, then the universe had surely accounted for that. 

Meeting Colin, the bright-eyed and inquisitive nephew of her neighbor one day at a neighborhood barbeque had been illuminating. Colin wasn’t destined to be her romantic partner, but her mentee. He was a bookish, scholarly boy, who adored books and had been writing since he’d first learned to hold a pencil. Anthea was content; in Colin she had found a lifelong friend and fellow bibliophile. He would go on to fall in love—or not!—and she would feel nothing but happiness for him. Her own lifestyle was secure.

Not being interested in romance for herself didn’t mean that Anthea failed to recognize its importance and meaning for others, particularly when one of them was a client who had become a good friend. Over the past five years she had come to care very deeply for Myc, and she knew something of the depths to which his hurt ran over being born without a soulmate. Although he treated the subject with light humour, she was aware that he honestly viewed himself as being flawed at his very essence.

Personally she hated the idea of soulmates. The notion was deeply hurtful to those individuals born without a soulmark, and the people who did develop theirs yet never met their soulmate seemed lost in a disturbing way. As if they viewed themselves as incomplete without their soulmate. This was, she thought, entirely the wrong way to view it. Colin, while dear to her, did not complete her. She was no more or less herself before than she was now that she had met him.

But to tender-hearted Myc, raised by a mother obsessed with soulmates, it was a wound never left to heal. Given the few things he had revealed, Anthea knew that the worst of his feelings on the subject were down to his parents. They were platonic soulmates, with a twenty-year age gap, who had nonetheless married, as his mother was unable to bear being parted from Mycroft’s father. 

His ‘mummy’ as the woman insisted she be addressed even though her children were grown, had really done a number on him. The lack of soulmark had been something she took personally, as if Mycroft were lacking and it reflected on her. He’d been taken to a parade of psychologists, dermatological specialists, psychics, shamans, witch doctors. More than once she’d stripped him naked and inspected him, looking for any indication that his soulmark, as yet undetected, was hiding. Apparently no area of his body had been unexamined. 

Anthea wondered if his mother had at any time considered the irreparable harm she was doing to his heart with her endless, fruitless searches. Myc deserved happiness, deserved someone who wanted the whole man; and Mycroft was whole, soulmark or not.

Decided, she sat up, placed her fingers on the keyboard and began to construct a message.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It was a cliché that writers frequented coffee shops. While true that Myc didn’t do all of his writing in cafés, sometimes he had to get out of his flat—and out of his pyjamas—and mix with humanity. On those days he either packed up his laptop, scribbled notes and his messy file of clippings, put on actual clothes and spent the day at the local café, or he would hole up in one of the empty cubicles at Anthea’s publishing firm. The danger there was that he would be interrupted by too many passersby, all of whom seemed to think that he needed a good gossip. At least at the coffee shop he was left alone as long as he bought refills and pastries on a semi-regular basis. The WiFi was better too.

The day was terribly cold and damp; the sun was shining weakly, not nearly enough to warm him, so he layered long-sleeved shirts under his favourite Deadpool hoodie before making his way to the café. Ensconced in one of the corner tables, in the cushiest chair, he spread his things out, ordering an espresso and an almond biscotti. Several hours passed in writing, the hum of the other patrons friendly but not intrusive; Myc was beginning to think of ordering lunch but decided a visit to the loo was in order.

Upon returning his steps faltered when he saw a familiar figure standing awkwardly near the door. “Greg?”

The other man turned toward him, clearly not at all surprised to see him, yet trying to act as if he were. “Myc! Wow, hey, what are the odds of running into you here?”

Oh-kay...so he was lying about expecting to see Myc here. Burying his amusement and his questions, Myc smiled at him, feeling a surge of friendly fondness. Wise or not, he couldn’t quite stifle his feelings for the man. “This is quite near my flat. I come here sometimes to write.”

“Are you working right now?”

“I am,” Myc said, noting Greg’s crestfallen expression. “But—I was just going to order some lunch and take a break.” He’d actually planned on working while eating, but Greg was a far preferable companion to his writing, which was feeling a tad stale at the moment. A break would be welcome, especially when it took the form of this appealing and surprisingly persistent man. “If you’re not in a hurry I’d be delighted if you joined me.”

Greg’s face opened up, his smile brilliant. “That’d be fantastic!”

They stood next to one another behind the woman and her small children who were at the counter. It looked as if they would take some time to negotiate food, as the two smallest were wailing at every suggestion. The harried mum looked ready to snap; the barista was barely hiding his sneering boredom. Myc gave the mum a sympathetic smile when she cast them an apologetic look. “You know what my favourite is?” Greg said loudly, as if to no one in particular. “The cheese toastie. It’s scrummy! And it’s good for your bones, makes you strong.” He casually flexed one arm.

The eldest boy, snot running down his upper lip, gazed up at Greg, who towered over him. He seemed to sense a trick. Then he noticed Greg’s Captain America shirt and his eyes went wide as he changed his mind. “Mum, Mum,” he whinged, tugging on her trouser-leg, “I want the cheese toastie!”

“Me too!” his sister shouted, even though not a few minutes before she’d soundly declared cheese toasties gross. Their mum shot Greg a grateful look and ordered cheese toasties all around. 

“I was going to get something healthier,” Greg said, touching his tummy self-consciously, “but actually...a cheese toastie sounds grand!” He grinned at the barista, “One ham and cheese toastie, and a cup of tomato soup. Oh and a cappuccino, extra foam.” He gestured at Myc, “And whatever he wants.”

“Who am I to buck the trend? One ham and cheese toastie, please. I’ll have crisps and a slice of chocolate cake as well.”

He refilled his water, gathering utensils and napkins whilst Greg waited for his cappuccino. Back at his table he began tidying the mess of papers but was joined by the other man before finishing. “Oh don’t move those on my account,” Greg began.

“No really, it’s fine. I’m sick of looking at it all, to be honest.” Myc slid the last of his things into his overloaded messenger bag, moving it to one of the unused chairs at the table. He sipped his water, smiling at Greg. “So...how did you find me?”

Greg, in the midst of blowing on his cappuccino, stopped, going wide eyed. “I...what?” He paused, setting down his cup. “I’m a terrible liar,” he confessed, eyes limpid. “I Googled you and found your books, and then I emailed your publishing house. A Ms Alexander replied, said she was a friend of yours and that I could find you here.” He sighed gustily, “I’m really sorry—is it out of line that I came here?”

_ Anthea,  _ Myc thought, with exasperated fondness. An inveterate meddler. 

Greg, worried because he hadn’t immediately responded, hurried on. “I swear I’m not a weird stalker! I just...I really like you, Myc. I know the last time we saw each other you were adamant that we shouldn’t see each other again, but...” He trailed off wistfully.

Myc tilted his head, “But what?” Greg’s face was so open, his longing clear. It warmed Myc like sunshine coming through a window. The warmth was followed by the chilly reminder of what had happened every other occasion when they spent time together.   
  


Greg’s face was earnest and kind, “You said the universe was trying to tell us something. But, Myc—the universe also creates soulmates, and not everyone gets one, or they lose them, or they never meet them! So...maybe the universe isn’t infallible. Or maybe there’s a plan, and that plan is to challenge our feelings for one another. See how strong they are.”

“Or I’m destined to be alone and when I try to challenge that the universe reminds me of my place.” Christ, why must Greg be so desperately handsome and earnest and kind and tempt him like this? It hurt to hope. Myc wanted him to stop just so he didn’t have to face his fear that maybe he could have what he wanted—and maybe he couldn’t. But god, how he wanted it— how he wanted  _ Greg _ .

Greg’s jaw set stubbornly, “Bollocks.”

“Is it?”

“You slipped on the ice, that could happen to anyone!”

“I set fire to you and I nearly choked to death!”

“That bloke pounded you on the back and you stopped choking before you were endangered,” Greg argued, “And you didn’t set fire to me, I was at fault there—well, me and my cheap tie.”

Myc couldn’t help but laugh, “This is ridiculous.”

Sensing a weakness, Greg grinned at him triumphantly, “So you agree? The idea of the universe trying to keep us apart is ridiculous?”

“I...suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have another date.” There went his persistent hope, reaching for the impossible.

“Yes!” Greg grinned happily, and Myc felt a swell of excitement. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had someone so determined to keep him in their life.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


**Greg:** _ So we had an entire lovely meal at the café and no one DIED or was “grievously injured.” Success! I suggest we celebrate by going to the movies  _ 😁

**Myc:** _ Are you sure you want to be responsible for risking a theatre full of innocent bystanders if all goes horribly wrong? _

**Greg:** _ Haha funny man. _

**Greg:** _ So...Friday? We could go to the place near mine. There’s a couple of places we could have dinner first.  _

**Myc:** _ I’ve a meeting with Anthea that afternoon, meet for dinner at 5ish? _

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


**Myc:** _ I,,, oh god. Greg, you’re not going to believe this. I’m not going to make our date. _

**Greg:** _ Did something come up? _

**Myc:** _ You could say that. _

**Myc:** _ I was running late so I got a taxi. There was a demonstration on the way to the theatre & things came to a standstill. Got out to walk to the nearest Tube station & I was swept up in a riot. _

**Greg:** _ omg what?!! Are you ok??? _

**Myc:** _ My toes are flat as crepes & I’ve ANOTHER black eye. [picture downloading] _

**Myc:** _ But yes I’m alright. The police need my statement & I’m afraid this'll take hours. I’m so sorry but I think we should postpone  _ 😬

**Greg:** _ Oh shit, Myc, your poor face! Looks painful. Want me to come wait with you? I can bring you something to eat. _

**Myc:** _ You’re marvelous to even offer but no. It’s a madhouse rn & I’m not sure they’d let you near. I’m headed home after. I’ll catch up with you tomo ok? _

**Greg:** _ Ofc! Take care, Myc. Put some ice on that eye. _

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Greg's warm voice poured through the phone line, warming Myc. "Hey, handsome, how’re you feeling after the brawl?" 

Myc leaned back against the pillows he had wadded up at one end of the sofa. His eye ached fiercely and the headache, impaired vision and tender face had just been extra rat-poisoned cherries on the crap sundae he'd been served. It was really good to hear Greg's voice. "You know how they say 'you should see the other fella'?" 

"Yeah…"

_ "I’m _ the other fella."

"Aw…" Greg's laugh was sympathetic. "You poor bastard, it was a really rough night for you, eh?" 

"Pretty much shit all around," Myc agreed, sighing loudly, "I can't see well enough to write without straining the vision in my good eye. Same goes for reading. If I watch too much telly I fall asleep. I've been napping and eating."

"Your housemates taking care of you?" 

He snorted, "No. We don't have that kind of relationship. I'm not particularly close to any of them. Financial need brought us together as housemates. I’m the one who’s here the most, which suits me. Alicia is a workaholic. Edwin spends most of his time at his girlfriend's flat. Timothy is often abroad—he's an international buyer for Harrods."

"Got the place to yourself then?" Myc admitted he had, not even realizing the trap he'd walked into. "So you'd probably really love some company, eh?" 

"Greg, no. Honestly. I'm in pain, unsightly and I won’t subject you to my grumpy arse."

"Not even if I sweeten the pot by offering to bring food?" 

He smiled, touched. "You really are a sweetheart to offer. But I'd far rather see you when I can actually  _ see _ you."

"Well...if you're sure."

"I am. It's lovely hearing your voice, though." He kicked at the blanket that had become wadded at the end of the sofa, pushing it out of the way, stretching out. "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah?" Greg sounded pleased. "Was afraid I might be a bother."

"If I didn't feel like talking I'd let it go to voicemail," he assured him. As a matter of fact he had let two calls from his mother go to voicemail—he rarely had the spoons to talk to her, and never without a great deal of advance planning. "How was your Saturday?" 

"Oh...pretty boring. Did some laundry, paid bills." His voice brightened. "I went to my sister's, she and her wife made a paella. We played board games with the kids. It was great."

"That's Jean and...Sally, right?" 

"That's right," the pleasure Greg felt at Myc remembering their names was palpable. 

“I think you said they have two children?”

"They have a daughter, Emma, she's nearly ten, and they adopted a little boy a few years ago. Oliver’s more of a video game sort, like me, but his Granny gave him Cluedo for Christmas and he's obsessed."

Myc laughed, "Oh God, my brother used to get absolutely furious when we played Cluedo! To this day it makes him see red when you so much as mention it."

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever meet him."

Myc licked his lips. "Greg. That's…I'm not ready for that."

"I know! You're barely open to the idea of dating. It was an innocent comment, I'm not angling to meet your family."

Some of his earlier pleasure at hearing from Greg had faded. "At this point I'm not certain I know how to date anymore. I've only been on  _ first _ dates for so long."

Greg was silent for a minute; Myc's heart sank. He’d practically invited the man to make his excuses. This might be the last time they spoke. 

"Mind if I ask you something, Myc?" 

"Within reason…"

"If you're so against the idea of dating, why are you on the app? Why have a profile at all?" 

He rubbed at his temples, headache returning. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Honestly? I should have deleted it ages ago. Going on dates only ever opened me up to pain. But there's pain to-to being lonely, too."

Greg's exhalation was soft and knowing. 

"I guess, despite everything, I still have hope."

"Hope for what, Myc?" 

"That I can find someone who makes me happy."

Greg's voice came through, softly understanding, "That's all anyone wants, Myc. Soulmates…they're the real rarity, don't you see? Sure there might be “the one perfect” person out there for someone, but they aren't the  _ only _ person who could make someone happy. Lots of people never meet their soulmate and they have great lives, happy marriages. You… You could find happiness with anyone in the world," His voice dropped, deepened, intimacy enveloping them. "...means anyone has a shot at being yours."

He could scarcely breathe. Hope thrashed wildly in his chest. It hurt to even let himself think. "... I'd...I think I'd like the chance to see if you could make me happy, Greg."

Greg sighed, "Ah, thank god. Thank god, Myc…cuz I'm not ready to give up."

He barely spoke above a whisper, hand clutching tight to his mobile, "Please don't give up."

"I won't…" Greg cleared his throat. "So uh… Does this mean I should keep pushing to come for a visit today?" 

Myc laughed shakily, "Decidedly not." He wiped at his damp eyes with the frayed sleeve of his hoodie.

"When  _ can _ I see you then?" 

"Soon," he promised, smiling, "Very soon, Greg.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


By the time Myc consented to meet again, his black eye was healed. His beard was flourishing, and when Greg opened his door he was greeted by a rather rakish looking Myc. His breath left him in a soundless whoosh; the tightness in his chest eased. “Hey,” he said softly, smiling helplessly at Myc, “God, it’s fantastic to see you—I’ve missed you these last few weeks.”

Myc smiled back, looking happy, “You too.”

Without thinking about it, Greg reached for him, pulling Myc into a hug. After a moment of surprise, Myc hugged him back. It was brief, but Greg welcomed the warmth of Myc’s body against his. He felt a pleasant tingle at the contact; he had to resist burying his nose in Myc’s neck and inhaling the wonderful smell of his cologne. “You feeling okay?”

“Much better,” he assured him with a smile. His hand lingered on Greg’s bicep, “Something smells wonderful.”

“Chicken parm. I have about three dishes I can make well and this is one of them.”

“I warrant the best?”

Greg bit his lip, smiling at him, “Well...it’s not the best of the three. Gotta keep you wanting more.” He winked, whispered, “Strategy.”

“I’m impressed,” Myc said, dropping his hand from Greg’s arm; Greg tried not to let his disappointment show. “I cook very little, although I love to eat. But I’ve three housemates and our kitchen is small. I live on takeaway and cereal.”

“Trust me, I understand. Living alone means I always cook too much for just me. So I usually eat frozen pizza.”

“May I do anything to help?”

Greg took his coat and scarf, “Naw, it’s got a bit to go. I have salad chilling in the fridge. Would you like a beer?”

Myc grinned at him, “No wine?”

He shuddered exaggeratedly, “Not allowed in this flat,” he said cheerfully, “Unless it’s for cooking.”

“I’d love a beer, thanks.” Myc followed him into his kitchenette. “How long have you lived here?”

“S...ix years? Since the divorce,” Greg said without thinking. He paused, “Um, I did mention I’d been married before, right?”

“You did. During one of our first chats, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay good, I was suddenly worried that somehow I’d not told you and you’d think I was hiding things.”

“Not that you owe me your entire past history this early on,” Myc said mildly. “But I appreciate your transparency.” He took a seat on one of the tall, mismatched stools Greg had next to the kitchen bench, “Do people normally freak out when you tell them?”

Greg leaned on the bench, sliding Myc’s beer across to him, “I used to put it in my profile, but people seemed to think that because my soulmate had died and I was married on top of that, that it was like I’d used up my allotment of love for my lifetime.”

Myc snorted, “Preposterous! As if you’re only capable of loving one person!”

Greg gazed at him innocently, “As preposterous as thinking the universe has decided you’re not allowed to fall in love?”   
  


Myc stilled, looking at him, expression startled, and a little longing, “I’m—are we...falling in love?”

Face hot enough to spontaneously combust, Greg banged his forehead on the bench, “Oh my god, why am I like this?”

“Greg? I was just teasing—”

He straightened, blushing hard but determined to meet Myc’s eyes, “Maybe ‘falling in love’ is a little too much too soon. But Myc,  _ god, _ I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I really, _ really _ like you.”

Myc was smiling at him—god, he had the prettiest eyes— “I really, really like you too, Greg.” He ducked his head a little, “I’m beginning to think you’re right, and perhaps I’ve been too hasty in the past. Letting a few setbacks dictate whether or not I ever saw someone again.” He looked up, mischievous, smiling broadly, “Besides, I have a feeling you’re persistent enough that you wouldn’t let me disappear on you.”

“Damn right!” The timer beeped and Greg started, “Oh! It’s ready...it can keep warm for a bit if you’re not done with your beer.”

“I’ll finish it while we eat. Shall we sit here or do you like to eat on the sofa?”

“Read me like a book, didn’t you? I normally watch telly and eat on the couch. That won’t do for a date though!”

The smile he received was accompanied by a twinkle of the eyes, “Why not? We’re something of rebels when it comes to dating. Let's eat on the sofa, we can have a nice chat. I want to hear all about your nephew’s birthday and we can decide where our next date will be.”

Greg’s heart lifted; he couldn’t restrain the happy grin he gave the other man, “Yeah? Another date? Before this one has even ended. Well, well, well Mr Holmes, someone’s feeling bold.”

“And devil-may-care,” Myc winked.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“This  _ is _ pretty devilish,” Greg murmured, hands cradling Myc’s face. He pulled back a little, brown eyes dazed, lips reddened from kissing. His face lit up in the smile that was fast undermining any sense that Myc had remaining. “Think I like bold-Myc.”

“Me too,” Myc agreed, one hand curled around the back of Greg’s neck, fingers brushing his hair. He had his other hand over Greg’s heart and had been marveling at the accelerated beat as they kissed.  _ It’s like his heart beats that fast just for me, _ he’d marveled. “Bold-Myc is thinking that next week is too long to wait for our date. We should strike while the iron’s hot. How would you feel about driving to the Surrey Hills tomorrow? Take a picnic?”

“It’ll be freezing,” Greg said happily, “We’ll probably be the only ones about.”

“We might have to snuggle for warmth,” Myc warned, fighting a smile.

Greg sighed loudly, “I  _ suppose.  _ If it’s the safe thing to do.”

Perhaps Greg hadn’t been fashioned for him by the universe—but the universe had seen fit to bring them together—and that was all Myc cared about. “I was a Boy Scout. You can safely put yourself in my hands.”

Wiggling a little closer where he sat close to him on the sofa, Greg leaned in for a kiss, “You bring your hands, I’ll bring me.”

“Deal,” Myc breathed, kissing him back. He sent out a little thank you to the universe—he had been wrong. Perhaps he was meant for love after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A little background headcanon for ya: Sherlock and John are platonic soulmates and their bond is so strong that they share a home. John is in a long-term relationship with Molly. They have a daughter, Abby, who lives with Molly. John splits his time between the two homes, and Abby visits Baker Street one weekend a month.  
> In this verse Sherlock is a forensic profiler and John is a forensic pathologist (as is Molly). They work together frequently. 
> 
> Fun Fact: when you cannot think of a title and it's time to post, grab some words that describe the bones of your story and Google translate 'em into Latin. Presto chango! A fancy sounding title for a not-fancy story *facepalm*


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